


lost dinosaur

by OedipusOctopus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Breakups, Idol AU, M/M, Pining, a friend with FEELINGS(TM), former idols kuroo tsukki bokuto and akaashi, kuroo is a supportive friend, not really a song fic but also heavily inspired by a song, tsukishima tries to deal with the end of a ten yr relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OedipusOctopus/pseuds/OedipusOctopus
Summary: He remembers their last beach trip, the wind flowing through his untamed locks, the sand warm between his toes (and in every other crevice his none-so-gently aging body had), the soft rumble of Tsukishima’s chuckles as he reads through a comic Tetsurou recommended him, the condensation slipping through his fingers as he sipped at the peach flavoured frozen lemonade clutched in his reddening hand, his heart threatening to thud out of his very ribcage when Tsukishima grinns at him over the half-empty cooler between them.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei, implied ushioi - Relationship, mentioned/background bokuaka, past/mentioned ushitsukki
Comments: 13
Kudos: 127





	lost dinosaur

**Author's Note:**

> this is my THANK YOU FURUDATE-SENSEI piece!!! i can't draw well and didn't have time to make a sweet embroidery project, and this fic has been rattling around in my brain for weeks. i can't believe the manga has ended. i'm so new to the fandom, but these stupid volleyball boys have seriously taken over my life!!! remember, it's not over until you say it is!!
> 
> title from [jurassic park](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ssoUJmI0BlI) by [stand atlantic](https://open.spotify.com/artist/1W2Fv4YUnjC8hx2qQd6fGh). there are many references to lyrics in this song, so i highly recommend giving it a listen!!!

The sharp scent of Pine Sol lingers in the air, the white-blank linoleum left with a sticky sheen of a freshly desperate mop job. Gloops of mostly melted almond milk Cherry Garcia seep out of the seam of a beat-up cardboard pint indented with crescent moons imprinted by perfectly manicured nails. The forgotten ice cream pools into perfect circles on the marble counter, the sugary-sweet spots the only thing out of place in an otherwise squeaky-clean kitchen. 

Well, Tetsurou supposes, the giant of a blonde man curled into the space between the dishwasher and an ajar cabinet is also in disarray to the immaculate space.

Sucking a quiet breath through his teeth, Kuroo turns his gaze to the backdoor. The canary yellow curtains are pulled aside, a soft satin rope tied into a perfect slipknot around the fabric. Beyond the glass panes, lush vegetable and fruit leaves spill over the sides of handmade garden boxes. Tetsurou remembers the day they were built; he thinks back to the tall glasses of freshly squeezed lemonade with sliced strawberries floating along with the ice, and his hands ache with the memory of having to hold wire in the proper position while Tsukishima pounded stakes into the soft soil. 

“The first thing he asked to take with him was the gardenias.”

Tetsurou lets his eyes slide back to the still form of Tsukishima, long, long legs sprawled in front of his frame. He looks frail, something Tetsurou had never thought of the man in all the time they’ve known each other. 

“He said it was the first gift Oikawa gave him.”

Sometimes words fail Tetsurou, and this is one of those times. 

A sigh spills from Tsukishima’s mouth, but it’s wet and gross and a near sob, and it makes Tetsurou want to punch something. “You can say ‘I told you so’ any minute now.”

He doesn’t. 

“Y’know,” Tsukishima breathes out, tilting his head to rest against the cabinet door behind him with a soft thud, “all I ever wanted was a few succulents on the window sill.” Tetsurou tears a paper towel off the roll and presses it into one of the puddles of ice cream. “Maybe an orchid for the dining table. But it was something he wanted, so I gave it to him.”

Tetsurou knows he gave, and gave, and gave, and hardly received.

“I hate it. I thought about digging it all up before he came by to pick up his things.”

The snort that escapes his lips isn’t exactly becoming, but Tetsurou is hard pressed to care. “It’s not too late. I have a shovel in my storage locker, I think.”

“Isn’t it cruel?” Tsukishima lets out a chuckle, sardonic and deeply rooted in something dark. “Ushijima left all the plants, took all the tools.”

Tetsurou knows Tsukishima isn’t talking about the garden, not entirely. 

~~

Tetsurou remembers the first time Tsukishima brought Ushijima back to the band’s dorm. Bokuto and Akaashi were in the middle of one of their stupid fights, something about who got to sing what part of the pre-chorus of their upcoming single, and their manager had been down their throats asking for a demo. Tetsurou was tired, so tired, of being their mediator, so he’d sat down on the couch in the next room with a bowl of popcorn in his lap and the latest autobiography of one of their labelmates propped on the armrest. 

At the sound of the front door opening and closing, the two in the den stopped their yelling. Frosted gray tips peeked around the doorway. “Is Kei finally back?”

Shrugging, Tetsurou craned his neck to look into the entryway. His head immediately snapped back, his eyes wide, to stare at Bokuto. “Oh my god,” he said breathlessly. “He’s with  _ Ushijima.” _ He kept his voice at a stage whisper, lest he be overheard by the two men in the gakuen. 

Bokuto’s own eyes widened perceptibly. “Shit, really?”

Akaashi rounded the corner at that moment, hand on his cocked hip, and opened his mouth to say something, but before either Tetsurou or Bokuto could shush him, the bubbly sound of laughter floated through the entry hall and into the living room, right into the three men’s eardrums. 

Tsukishima’s laughter.

It wasn’t that hollow, self-loathing chuckle they were used to hearing from Tsukishima, but actual, genuinely happy laughter none of them had heard from him in months. Years, probably. 

The sound was followed by a deep voice, words too low for any of them to catch their meaning, and then the door opened, shut once more. 

And then, a sound that was undoubtedly quiet but still rang out in this silence curated by the bated breath of three worried bandmates, a high, forlorn igh. 

An honest to god, lovesick sigh. 

~~

Tetsurou helps Tsukishima unearth all the plants that spent the last two years rooted in his backyard. He does bring his own shovel, which makes Tsukishima snort and crack a smile—the first Tetsurou has seen on his face in weeks. 

“I borrowed a bunch of stuff from Akaashi, you idiot.” The words were mean, but Tetsurou doesn’t feel any malice. 

The plan is to build a taller fence, once they’ve removed all the plants. They’re still arguing over the best way to somehow lay any kind of flooring that could double as a proper place to dance that would also be weatherproof. Tetsurou insists that a giant gazebo is the only plausible option, but Tsukishima argues that a gazebo big enough to cover the entire floor would be too flashy. 

“Tsukki, you’re building an entire dance floor in your backyard. It’s not even the only dance floor in your house. I think you passed ‘too flashy’ a long time ago.”

Tsukishima harrumphs as he plucks the last of the radishes from the raised bed he’s currently hunched over. “I refuse to take comments from the person with a literal coffin in his condo.”

“It was a gift!” Tetsurou splutters. He digs his fingers into the soft soil to uproot a turnip. “It’s rude to throw out gifts.”

“It was a gag gift. You’re allowed to throw those out.” Sitting back to rest his weight on his heels, Tsukishima swipes a hand over his forehead to remove the sweat beading on his brow. He leaves behind a smear of dirt. “I doubt Hinata would be offended at anything you do, honestly.”

“Exactly!” Tetsuro carefully moves dirt into the hole left behind as he pulls out the root vegetable. He pats the small mound lightly. “Shrimpy went out of his way to get his favourite senpai a gift. How could I betray his kouhai puppy love by getting rid of it?”

“He’s thirty-two, I think he’ll manage.”

Tetsurou groans. “God, don’t remind me how old we are.”

“ _ We _ aren’t any age.  _ I  _ am thirty-two,  _ Hinata  _ is thirty-two,  _ you _ are thirty-four.”

Tetsurou feels the pseudo-offended scoff rising in his throat, is about to throw some witty comment back in Tsukishima’s face, but the blonde man in front of him abruptly pulls a sharp breath through his teeth. 

“Fuck, we got together when I was twenty-two.” Tsukishima’s shoulders sag under the weight of the realization. “It would’ve been ten years this August.”

Sometimes words fail Tetsurou, and this is one of those times. ‘Sorry’ isn’t enough. ‘He was a jerk anyway’ is too close to ‘I told you so’ for the situation. ‘Wanna get drunk?’ is ill-advised given the atmosphere. ‘Fuck that guy’ is too insensitive. 

“Shit, did I really waste ten years of my life on him?”

He's heard Tsukishima's self-loathing too many times to count by now, but this is entirely different. There's no half-assed grin to cover the self-deprecation, no scowl to worry over the frustration building below the surface, no raised voice to call him out on. Just… nothing. 

Tetsurou is probably the most ill-equipped person to handle this situation. His last breakup was eight years ago, and with it, his last relationship. 

But he wants to  _ help.  _

"Do you think you wasted your time?" he says, eventually, once the silence has stretched so thin between them he's sure he could reach out and cut his finger open on it. 

Tsukishima continues staring down at the ground, clenches his fists in the dirt, shifts his weight into his knees. Tetsurou watches as the soil squeezes through his gloved fingers over, over, over again. "No, I don't think so."

"Well then, there you go."

"You're not going to tell me to 'remember the good times' or some other bullshit?" Ah, there is the I-hate-myself half-smile. 

"Would that make you feel better?" Tetsurou raises an eyebrow, waiting. 

They hold eye contact for one, three, seven quiet beats. "I wanted a dog."

The other eyebrow raises to the same level as the first. Tetsurou cocks his head to the side. "Cats are the superior pet, Tsukki," he says admonishingly. 

It's Tsukishima who breaks their held gazes in favour of looking out at the steadily growing waste pile of vegetable matter. "Ushijima said a dog would ruin the garden." 

"Hm." Tetsurou digs his fingers into the root of another turnip. "Well, there won't be any garden to ruin soon, now will there?"

~~

"You could call me Kei, like Akaashi and Bokuto do. God knows we've known each other long enough." 

Tetsurou stirs the chilled spoon lazily through the mint leaves shredded into the top of his lemonade, considering. "You could call them Keiji and Koutarou, god knows you've known them long enough."

It's a discussion—not an argument, Tetsurou swears—they've had at least twice a year since their first comeback nearly twelve years ago. 

_ "Since this comeback was successful, I guess we'll be sticking around for a while. Call me Kei." _

_ "Tsukki has a nice ring to it though, yeah?" _

Tsukishima wrinkles his nose, sliding his index finger along the rim of his own half-empty glass. "You're all older than me. It's respectful."

He can't help the snort he lets out into the mouth of his cup as he's about to take another sip. "I never understood how you could be such a shit about everything else, but maintain such strict boundaries over something stupid like names."

Tsukishima hums quietly into his lemonade as his lips touch the edge of his glass. “‘Koutarou, Keiji, Kuroo, and Kei’ does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Alliteration and all that.”

“Maybe,” Tetsurou says. “But ‘Tetsu and Tsukki’ sounds way cooler.”

“Ugh, kill me if I ever take to calling you Tetsu.”

A stunning guffaw claws its way up Tetsurou’s throat, so sudden and consuming he drops the spoon with an echoing clatter to the marble countertop. “You’re right, never call me Tetsu. The sound it makes coming from your salty little mouth…” he dissolves into a fit of giggles that won’t stop pouring from his lips. “I’d die of laughter before I’m forty,” he manages to rasp between staccato breaths. 

Tsukishima gently places his cup down on the counter, cushioning the impact with the pad of his pinky. “I can see it now,” the corner of his mouth twitches upward a mere centimeter, “‘Kuroo Tetsurou, son, friend, idol, taken too young from this Earth by a salty little mouth.’” 

Tetsurou’s breaths calm for a moment. One, two, four beats pass between them in silence, and then they burst into synched laughter. Clutching his stomach, Tetsurou nearly falls from his stool while he watches the soft lines crease in the corner of Tsukishima’s eyes as the other man’s face contorts in uncontrollable mirth. 

The sound of Tsukishima’s laughter reverberates in the air surrounding him, rattles his bones, coats his tongue in a taste sweeter than the exorbitant amount of sugar stirred into his forgotten lemonade. 

~~

“How did the two of you meet?”

Tetsurou tried his best to put up a neutral front in high contrast to Akaashi’s poised I’m-a-curious-bandmate posture and Bokuto’s threatening I’m-a-protective-friend-unafraid-to-punch-someone stance, he remembers. 

Tsukishima paused his movement, rolled egg omelette gripped between chopsticks still in the air halfway between his plate and his mouth. He raised an eyebrow, and Tetsurou watched as the corner of his mouth twitched irritably. “Is this an interrogation?” He cleared his throat and drops his chopsticks gently against the side of his plate. “I was unaware of any rules regarding bandmates needing to meddle in each others’ dating lives.”

“So you’re dating?” Bokuto asked, slapping his palms roughly on the dining table. 

“Cool it, Bo,” Tetsurou admonished quietly. He hoped the curiosity welling deep in his gut didn’t show on his face. Too blatantly, anyway. 

Tsukishima scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair with an air of smugness not unlike his public persona usually emitted. “Depends, Bokuto,” he said. “Are you and Akaashi dating?”

The over-the-top sputtering that spilled from Bokuto's mouth should have been funnier than it was—and it would have been, were it not for the much funner, dumbstruck look that overwhelmed Akaashi's normally stoic features. 

~~

The air is thick with a heavy humidity as Tetsurou steps through the open threshold of the dining room and into the newly-landscaped backyard. The rows upon rows of vegetables are gone, the fruit trees have been relocated to a local community garden, the flower boxes moved to anywhere but here. All that remains of the previous flora that once packed the open space is the modest planter bursting with several bushels of fresh herbs. 

_ “Food tastes better with fresh herbs,” Tsukishima says into the palm of his hand placed over his mouth.  _

_ The crease between his brows, the subtle dip of his right shoulder, the sheen in his eyes betray him.  _

_ ‘I can’t let go of it all,’ Tsukishima doesn’t say, because he doesn’t have to, not to Tetsurou.  _

It’s the second week of August, far too hot for all the movement happening under the gazebo spanning nearly the entire yard.

Tsukishima has always been a dancer by nature, with limbs too long and feet too graceful for any other earthly motion. Beyond those things, Tetsurou knows, dancing is the one thing Tsukishima has allowed himself. Deeper than the ice prince persona played up in the media for their burgeoning careers lies the unrest of one Tsukishima Kei’s true nature, antsy and far too large for anything other than wild abandon to rhythmic beats. 

As he watches Tsukishima step, pivot, step, repeat, repeat, repeat, Tetsurou thinks of what he came here to do. Piles of things, wrapped tightly in too many layers of shrink wrap, await him in the basement for transport. Tsukishima wanted them out— _ It’s a funeral hall of our relationship _ —and Ushijima wanted another week to make arrangements before he came to retrieve them. 

Tetsurou is nothing if not a selfish friend-in-waiting of Tsukishima’s every whim. 

But he can’t tear his gaze away from the ethereal way Tsukishima twirls, stomps, moves through motions Tetsurou hasn’t seen before. 

The rest of the world will have to wait as Tetsurou watches his best friend dance through the ghosts that haunt gardens past. 

It’s as he observes the methodical yet flowing way Tsukishima transitions between each step that the realization crashes into him, not unlike the comet that killed the dinosaurs. 

~~

Tetsurou doesn’t remember when the lemonade tradition started, not really. 

What he remembers, though, is the first time a fresh-faced, seventeen year old Tsukishima approached him with a note about choreography, his fingers twisting along the hem of his sweat-soaked shirt, and how the obvious nerves hidden beneath teenage angst and lanky limbs made Tetsurou stop drinking the too-sour lemonade he’d snuck into his water bottle to respond properly.

He remembers the two sitting so close their knees touch as they mix, re-mix, mix songs during another late night in the studio, Bokuto and Akaashi passed out on the crushed red velvet couch and a pitcher of half-drunk lemonade with blackberries disintegrating into little seeds that will no doubt end up stuck between his teeth later. 

He remembers the hard discussion they’d all seen coming from a mile away but still hurt nonetheless, Bokuto crying and the corner of Akaashi’s lips turned down toward the ground as they made the decision to break up, retire, and the way Tetsurou wished Tsukishima had poured a little more sugar into the lemonade in his glass because the citric acid tingled at the corner of his mouth the entire night. 

He remembers sitting around a lazy Susan weighed down with a myriad of mismatched dishes as Tsukishima giggled over some lame inside joke Ushijima told, and the realization that there absolutely was not enough vodka in the bottom of his hastily-put-together lemonade cocktail to deal with Tsukishima giving  _ that _ face and  _ those _ eyes to a man who tried earlier in the evening to convince Tetsurou that ginger and lemongrass are the only acceptable additives to freshly squeezed lemonade. 

He remembers the desperate look on their old manager’s face as the man sat in his absurd spinning chair across the conference room table as he begged for them for one— _ just one— _ reunion show, for the fans, for the new year festival, for the spring concert, for the summer bash, for any amount of money they could possibly ask for, but really Tetsurou would have said yes to any request if it meant he could see again the displeased look that twisted up Tsukishima’s delicate features as he took a sip of the shitty reconstituted powder lemonade set in front of them at the start of the meeting. 

He remembers the scowl that overtook Bokuto’s features and the startlingly blank veil that settled across Akaashi’s face when Tsukishima told them he planned on proposing to Ushijima as Tetsurou forcibly crunched through a raspberry plump with soaked-up lemonade floating at the top of his glass. 

He remembers their last beach trip, the wind flowing through his untamed locks, the sand warm between his toes (and in every other crevice his none-so-gently aging body had), the soft rumble of Tsukishima’s chuckles as he reads through a comic Tetsurou recommended him, the condensation slipping through his fingers as he sipped at the peach flavoured frozen lemonade clutched in his reddening hand, his heart threatening to thud out of his very ribcage when Tsukishima grins at him over the half-empty cooler between them.

~~

It’s too soon, his grandmother tells him. She knows, she says, because it’s been twelve years since her late husband’s passing and she doesn’t think she’ll ever love again. 

It’s too soon, his father tells him. He knows, he says, because it’s been thirty years since his wife walked out on him and the only thing that’s been on his mind since then are his kids. 

It’s too soon, his 16-year-old younger sister tells him. She knows, she says, because he sees the way their dad looks at her with regret in his eyes sometimes. 

It’s too soon, the internet tells him. It knows, it says, because that’s what every single result that pops up on the first ten pages of the search engine says. 

It’s too soon, his brain tells him. It knows, it says, over and over and over again, because it sees the way Tsukishima’s eyes glaze over with unshed tears as they stumble upon some item Ushijima bought and left behind in the house they were supposed to grow old in, together. 

~~

“Why don’t you sell the house?” 

It’s obviously the wrong thing to say, if the tensing of Tsukishima’s shoulders are anything to go by. Tetsurou knows, but he needs to know. Why, why,  _ why. _

Tsukishima snorts lightly and continues to push the now-cold noodles around on his plate. “It would be hard with the giant gazebo in the back. It’s an eyesore.”

“Then pay to have it torn down,” Tetsurou says. “You’ll make that money back, easily.”

Sighing, Tsukishima drops his chopsticks. He leans back in his chair. The wood creaks ominously beneath his shifting weight. He doesn’t say anything immediately. 

So this could go one of two ways, Tetsurou thinks. Either Tsukishima clams up and gets defensive with some witty retort and a quick diversion, or he gets up and leaves the room altogether with the intention to kick Tetsurou to the curb clear. 

“Do you feel like an adult, Kuroo?”

Oh. 

Okay, so. 

So maybe it could go a different direction entirely. 

Unsure of where Tsukishima could possibly be going with this, Tetsurou clears his throat. “My joints tell me I’m very adult every morning.”

“That’s not—” Tsukishima cuts himself off with another sigh. “Do you think we missed out on becoming real adults because of our careers?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Tetsurou speaks slowly, as if dragging out his response will give him more time to suddenly comprehend Tsukishima’s words.

“Most people ‘find themselves’ in college, right? And then they get some shitty office job and learn how to live on their own. They become adults while working sixty-hour work weeks and taking the subway.”

“Oh.” Tetsurou takes a second to process, tapping his fingernail against his glass. Today, it’s filled with lemonade-saturated cucumbers and mulled mint leaf shreds. “People don’t become adults because of college and stuffy office jobs and crowded trains. People become adults alongside those things.”

Tsukishima hums quietly, slumping further into his seat. His knee bumps into Tetsurou’s under the table. He doesn’t meet Tetsurou’s gaze; instead, he glares at the moth trying to fly into the porch light beyond the back door. 

“I think we’ve been adults for longer than most because of our careers.”

Tsukishima’s eyes snap to Tetsurou’s face. Searching, searching for something. 

“I mean,” Tetsurou breathes out, “we moved into dorms while we were still in middle school, right? If you really think living on your own is the start of adulthood, then we did that, like, five years before the rest of the world does.”

“It’s more than living on your own.” Tsukishima trails his gaze back to the window. “I would hardly consider being crammed into a rookie dorm with ten other guys as truly living on your own, anyway.”

“You only had ten others in your dorm? Lucky you. I had to deal with fourteen—and one of them was Bokuto. He counts for at least three.”

“Yeah, yeah, you had to walk uphill both ways back in your day, grandpa.” The sharp grin Tsukishima throws in Tetsurou’s direction doesn’t dull the faraway look in his eyes. “There’s a certain way things are supposed to go.”

“What? Go to college, get a crappy job, meet a nice girl at a coffee shop, get married, get promoted, have a baby, have an affair with your secretary, get divorced, die?” 

“You left out ‘have a failed tech start up, get a midlife crisis tattoo, move into a bachelor pad’ before death.”

“Oh, you’re right, my bad.”

Tsukishima chuckles, but it sounds more like something between a snort and a scoff. Tetsurou knows him well enough to read between the lines, though. 

“But for real.” Leaning forward, Tetsurou rests his chin into the palm of his hand. “Is that the way you wanted your life to go?”

“No,” Tsukishima rushes to say. “Not at all.”

_ Then how were things supposed to go? _ he wants to ask, but he can’t, so he doesn’t. 

“Owning a house is something that was supposed to happen,” Tsukishima answers anyway.

_ So I’m not letting it go, _ he doesn’t say.  _ I’m not ready to let him go completely, _ he doesn’t have to say. 

Tetsurou knows, but he still wants to ask why, why,  _ why.  _

He swallows down too much lemonade in one go, hoping it’ll drown out the rapid thud-thud-thudding of his heart.

~~

Bokuto has never believed him when he says that Tsukishima is insecure, underneath all the scowls and frowns and sarcasm. Sometimes it manifests in oversized sweatshirts that swallow his lithe frame, other times in the nearly instantaneous responses in the group chat even if the message isn’t aimed at him. 

But more often than not, it’s in physical presence. 

Touch. 

It’s sitting on the same side of the diner booth even if it’s only the two of them; it’s slouching in his chair so he can rest a knee against someone’s thigh; it’s towering next to the only person he knows in a crowded room so close their shoulders brush; it’s lifting the arm rest at a movie theater so he can press his thigh against someone else’s; it’s never leaving a couch cushion empty; it’s a lingering brush of fingers as he passes off a glass of lemonade at dinner. 

Akaashi swears he doesn’t see it, either.

But with the way the two danced around their (somehow) unbeknownst mutual feelings for each other for a literal decade, Tetsurou doesn’t trust their observation skills. 

Which is why he takes it in stride when Tsukishima suddenly loses all concept of personal space whenever Tetsurou comes to his house—which, incidentally, is not every day, but it’s a close thing.

The quasi-footsies under the dining table, the arm thrown across the back of the couch behind his shoulders, the fingers threaded through his hair as they half-watch a movie they’ve seen ten times through sleep-heavy lids, the insistence that Tetsurou share his bed instead of taking the guest bed ( _ because that old thing is lumpy and hard, you’ll hurt your old man back and I don’t want to hear you complain in the morning _ ) when he realizes it’s too late to catch a train back to his condo. 

With each passing touch, Tetsurou’s brain has to remind him  _ it’s too soon, it’s too soon, it’s too soon _ even as his heart beats to the tune of  _ now’s the time, now’s the time, now’s the time. _

~~

The heavily-produced bassline tears through Tsukishima’s speakers so violently it makes the sugary-sour remnants of the lemonade in Tetsurou’s glass ripple atop the coffee table.

“It’s like that scene in Jurassic Park.” Tetsurou barks out a sharp laugh at the glare Tsukishima throws in his direction. He can feel the blonde’s alcohol-tinged breath ghost across his cheeks as he breathes harshly through his nose. “C’mon, it is!”

Tsukishima only narrows his eyes in response. 

Tetsurou doesn’t let his own grin fall from his lips. He turns his attention back to the comeback stage playing on the TV, taking in the flashing lights and superficial fog and, oh yes, there is even reflective confetti falling all around the seven boys that dance across the screen. He lets out a low whistle before he says, “You really out did yourself on this one, Tsukki. This is incredible choreography.”

“It better be.” Exasperation tinges his voice. Tsukishima takes a sip of his drink, leaning forward to set the glass down next to Tetsurou’s. “Their leader was adamant about making all the members look their best. I reworked the whole thing three times just to make him happy.”

Tetsurou lets his hand fall onto Tsukishima’s thigh, palm up, fingers relaxed—an invitation. He can see the tension crawling up Tsukishima’s spine as one of the younger members falls out of beat during the outro. 

Without removing his eyes from the screen, Tsukishima entwines his fingers between Tetsurou’s. His palm is cold against the quote ‘inhuman’ warmth of Tetsurou’s. 

That’s what sends a shiver down the back of Tetsurou’s neck, surely. 

He watches Tsukishima’s profile as the final bars of the song play on the TV, takes in the small upturn of his lips, relishes in the crinkling in the corner of his eye, wishes he could lean forward to press his lips to the slight flush blossoming across Tsukishima’s cheeks. 

But the places they’re connected—their fingers, their thighs, their crossed ankles—tingle deliciously, and t he soft, saccharine sweet smile Tsukishima flashes at him as the video ends makes Tetsurou’s heart swell three sizes. 

Whether the time is now or it’s too soon, he doesn’t care, not right now. Tsukishima is smiling again, and that’s enough for Tetsurou.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! <3 i have so many haikyuu pieces in the works rn (including an upcoming luna and noir krtsk fesitval piece!) so if you'd like updates, subscribe to me here or follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus)!
> 
> black lives matter. no justice, no peace, abolish the police. arrest the cops who murdered breonna taylor. stay mad, stay loud. stay safe <3


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